Learning Love When You Grew Up Earning It.

For many same-sex attracted Christians, the hardest part of faith is not rules.

It’s love.

Not loving God, but believing we are loved without having to earn it.

Before we learned theology, many of us learned how to read rooms. We learned who was safe, who had power, who could protect us, and who might hurt us if we were misunderstood. Love wasn’t something we assumed, it was something we watched carefully.

I learned early that safety lived near authority.

In primary school, I befriended teachers. I was the one sent on errands, the one wiping the teacher’s table, the one trusted. Not because I was wrong, but because I became useful. Performative. Reliable. Close to power.

It wasn’t manipulation.
 It was survival.

Love felt safer when it was earned.

In church, I served everywhere. Not because I wanted attention, but because service created belonging. If I was needed, surely there would be space for me.

In secondary school, I perfected it. I trained myself how to talk, how to walk, how to be impressive. I became the teacher’s favorite. I got good grades — not because I loved winning, but because achievement was armor.

Grades earned respect.
 Respect felt like love.

This followed me into adulthood, into school, work, and leadership. I learned how to perform well, speak well, and close deals. And yet I noticed something strange: I didn’t even enjoy success.

The wins didn’t feel like joy.
 They felt like relief.

Because it was never about winning.
 It was about being safe.
 It was about earning love.

Many same-sex attracted people grow up learning love this way. Difference teaches us early that acceptance is fragile. So, love becomes something to manage, not something to rest in.

And then we meet God.

But instead of receiving His love freely, we relate to Him the way we learned love works.

We try harder.
 Serve more.
 Pray more.
 Fix ourselves faster.

Not always because we are disobedient,  but because we are afraid.

Afraid that if we stop striving, love will be withdrawn.
 Afraid that rest will cost us belonging.

But here is where the gospel gently interrupts us:

God’s love is not earned.
 It is not impressed into existence.
 It is not sustained by performance.

For people who learned love as earning, this is uncomfortable. Free love feels unsafe when vigilance keeps you alive. Grace feels suspicious when acceptance is always conditional.

This is why many same-sex attracted Christians don’t struggle most with sin. We struggle with rest.

We confuse obedience with being lovable.
 We confuse discipline with worth.
 We confuse holiness with disappearing.

But God is not asking us to perform our way into love.

He is not tolerating you.
 He is not reluctantly loving you.
 He is not waiting for you to become someone else.

He is constant.

People change.
 Seasons shift.
 Rooms move on.

But God does not love you because you are impressive.
 He does not withdraw because you are tired.
 He is not threatened by your need.

This doesn’t mean convictions don’t matter.
 It doesn’t mean boundaries disappear.
 It doesn’t mean “anything goes.”

It means love comes first, not last.

Before fixing.
 Before striving.
 Before understanding everything.

If you are same-sex attracted and love feels anxious instead of safe, hear this:

You are not failing.
 You are not behind.
 You are not broken.

You may simply be relearning love, not as something to earn, but as something already given.

And God is not impatient with that process.

He is already there.
 Not evaluating.
 Not withholding.

Just loving you, because He is love.